55 Polaroid Land

I slept with two women, Seashell having invited her friend Coronado PJ over to the dorm room, we did blotter acid propped window silled.

Cartoon dog on the sheet, some new Saturday thing, Scoopy-Doopy or something, PJ's dad worked at Hanna-Barbera, scoped the competition.

I enjoyed myself, spit up drool when Seashell saw my posture and called me Dr. Cephalophore. PJ shrieked, street level kids looked around.

The two of them tan and naked, bare ass cottontails, PJ pontytailed. Yea, I was old, sorta. Didn't stop me from singing Cash's Cocaine Blues.

I got goofy after we smoked a blunt, waving it over their heads, outsiders getting a free show as the girls reached up, flashing boobs.

Started talking like Al Capone best I could, not knowing Chicago that well, only that something happened there they made a movie about.

Girls didn't go for gangster lingo, I riffed on that cartoon doggy bow wow rat a tatta ta bow wowow tongue out purple in the streetlamp.

Had them in giggles, tits like taut water balloons rolling on the wooden sill. Looked up at the moon, lighting up our faces, not knowing why

the roundness above me in the deep blue once meant more than the four small globes I kept manuevering my elbows around, now I didn't care.

Like that, thoughts gone, night wind so sweet. I hadn't bathed in days. No one cared, I answered to no one here. Time to freak the girls out.

Tits sway, elbows propped. I tell them groov on this, all we are, every bit of us, bit o honey bit o memory bitter memories bittytittybrain.

lives loves losses kchk kchk punches on a card, spooled into data in a huge Cray computer in the basement of the ROTC building out back.

Kid on the street flashed a peace sign, behind my eyes, a vulture ate him, swooped down, gulp. Eyes open, kid air guitars a shadow puppet.

Girls stoned, me: mind still on the bird, familiar nose and hairline, wingflapped sounds like turbines. I took the roach, flicked it gone.

Yes, I argued in between their thoughts. Keep trying to enjoy this, forget the copper smell in your nose and throat. Forget your books.

Next day we went to a studio and sat in on a session with Manfred Mann, I helped them riff lyrics for a song called "Blinded By The Light."

Said, no, no, its nothing, just like freebasing a verse. Keep talkwriting every day or I die, a writer is his own disciple. (PinDrop). Wow.

We drove south to San Ysidro just to take photos, PJ had a Polaroid Land camera, all full of surprises. Posed in empty backgrounds bluesky.

Tall men in white robes and red Keds appeared, handsfold, blue eye serene. Givers of Spatial Diversity. I think they want 2001 A SPACE ORGY.

Girls all for it, Seashell so far different than Karin. I shrug. Then I reach forward teartwist the first one's hands, crushed Sputnik falls.

They work in the turbines, I yell. The winds cry Culhane, the winds cry Culhane! Girls think it's a bad trip. But they still take 22 photos.

I sign them all with an ink pen from one of the tall dudes from the orgy. Sell them for a giant bag of weed and some red balloon bennies.

We drive back to USC, PJ tells us about this cool group living on the Spahn Ranch, her half-cousin Squeaky Fromme & her friend Charlie M.

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